


Wonder Bread

by matriarch-gob-bluth (Qinderella)



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Blink and you miss it Dom/Sub overtones, Deep Throating, Dirty Talk, Established reluctant relationship, Exactly what you'd expect, Fighting as a means of foreplay, George Michael is there for a hot second, Gob goes grocery shopping, Incest, M/M, Makeup Sex, Michael is doing taxes, Multiple Orgasms, No bread, Sex In The Kitchen, Sibling Incest, There are mangoes, domestic feels, shameless incest, there is sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qinderella/pseuds/matriarch-gob-bluth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Bluth just wants to do the company's taxes in peace. He asks Gob to go grocery shopping for him. He regrets it--almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wonder Bread

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much porn without plot, but with bickering.  
> A fill for this prompt: Person A is really busy with work or something or whatever and asks Person B to go to the store and get bread. Person B goes to the store and is gone for half the day and comes back with a bunch of extra stuff, but doesn’t bring back the one thing Person A needed.

.

.

“Is this your card?”

 

Michael Bluth sighed heavily and looked up, a cracking noise coming from his back with the motion. He hadn't even realised how slumped over he had been until he sat up straight, gazing upward, brow furrowing in annoyance. He combed his fingers through his hair, tugging slightly to put pressure on his scalp and distract himself from his already-mounting headache. “I didn't  _ pick  _ a card--Gob, that's not even a  _ card! _ It's a hole-punch card from the banana stand!” Gob glanced down at the offending blue and white punch card in his hand with a soft  _ huh,  _ and Michael’s exasperation grew ten-fold. “Why do you even have that? You don't pay for the bananas now, do you?”

 

“What? Oh...no, no, of course not,” Gob replied soberly, oblivious or uncaring about how much Michael would have liked to strangle him in that moment, “Punch cards are just... _ fun _ , you know?”

 

“No. I don’t know. And you need to start paying for the bananas. I’m going to talk to George Michael about that again,” Michael replied curtly, tossing the punch card back in Gob’s direction. Gob acted like he caught it, but Michael saw it flutter to the floor. He didn’t say anything. 

 

Gob was quiet for a second or two, discreetly picking up the punch card and pocketing it, and Michael returned to his task at hand. He’d only just began to write something out, when Gob spoke again. “Do you think that my fans would appreciate it if I gave them punch-cards for the Banana Stand?” Gob asked, sounding genuinely curious, and Michael fought back the heavy sigh that rested in his throat. 

 

He answered, only because he knew that ignoring Gob would only make him more persistent, but he didn’t look up from the stacks of paper in front of him. “Appreciate it? Maybe. Think that it’s  _ magic? _ Not unless your fans are all exactly like you,” 

 

Gob furrowed his brow in confusion, only proving Michael’s point further, then the room lapsed back into the silence that Michael had been coveting all morning. It was a Saturday, and the last thing he had wanted to do was go into the office. However, sometimes work didn’t stop for the weekend, and this  _ needed  _ to be done by Monday. So, he’d decided there was no reason not to have the best of both worlds, and had just decided to take the work home with him. Usually he would never assume that he’d be able to get  _ any  _ work done in the Model House, but almost everyone was supposed to be out that weekend, with various plots and schemes that he’d asked to please not know the details of, so he had figured that he’d have a quiet house to get his work done in. He’d gotten up early that morning, had settled down at the kitchen table with his work and a hot cup of slightly stale coffee--no toast though, much to his disappointment, because they were out of bread--and had worked productively for about thirty minutes or so. Then George Michael had come downstairs to tell him that he was going to church with Ann.  _ Who? Her? Church? On a Saturday?  _ Michael liked to think that he wasn’t completely sacrilegious--though he knew there was pretty good evidence to indicate otherwise--but church on a Saturday just seemed like overkill. Michael almost hoped that his son was  _ lying,  _ and was actually sneaking out to have sex. (He wasn’t.) He knew that he wasn’t. So, reluctantly, he had waved goodbye to his son and watched him leave for church on a Saturday. After a few minutes of wondering where he’d gone wrong in setting an example for his son--and concluding that it definitely wasn’t his fault, and he had three perfectly bad siblings to blame for that--he had managed to go back to his work. However, that bout had been short-lived too. No sooner had he really refocused, then his older brother, Gob, had stumbled into the kitchen, wearing a robe over his regular clothes.  _ Coffee?  _ He’d asked, blinking at Michael. Michael had replied,  _ in the pot _ , without looking up, then was left boiling with hate when his brother thanked him and nabbed his half-empty mug of almost cold coffee off the table and downed it in two gulps. 

 

That had been the beginning of the end, and nearly forty-five minutes ago, and Michael was slowly going insane. He wrote out another strand of numbers on the form in front of him, before it, and all his other meticulously stacked papers, were abruptly shoved away from him in a flourish. Gob had casually brushed them away, causing some of them to spill out of their stacks and a couple to flutter to the floor, when he decided that chairs were overrated and had hopped up onto the table in front of Michael, and okay, no, that was the  _ last straw--! _

 

“Okay, Mikey, was  _ this  _ your card?” 

 

“ _ Jesus Christ, Gob--! _ ” Michael got up with a demanding slam of his hands on the table, knocking over the what-he-thought was an empty coffee cup, only to find that it wasn’t empty in the slightest bit. Coffee sloshed across the floor, splattering against his slippers, and slowly trickling across the tile floor toward the papers that were there. “ _ No! _ ” Michael snatched the papers up, crumpling them some, but managing to save them from the flood of overly-creamed coffee that he had never seen Gob pour back into the coffee cup. Of course, the one time that his brother seemed to have succeeded with his slight of hand, and Michael’s slippers were paying the price. 

 

The coffee was still pooled on the floor, and Gob seemed utterly oblivious to that, the mess of papers, and how livid his brother was. “Michael, are you paying attention--”

 

“Okay! Stop, just stop, okay? That’s it--just stop!” MIchael snatched the card from Gob’s hand and another one fluttered out of Gob’s sleeve and landed innocently on the floor, in the puddle of coffee. Now, Gob finally reacted, snatching the card back from Michael and staring down at the ruined one in horror.

 

“Look at what you did! Do you see what you did, Michael? How am I supposed to perform  _ anything _ without a four of clubs?”

 

“That’s a four of  _ Spades _ , Gob--okay, you know what? I’m not having this conversation with you! I’m not having  _ any  _ conversation with you,” Michael went to get a towel, bitterly looking at the papers in disarray on the table. He so should have just gone into the office. Gob would never willingly go into the office, unless it was time for paychecks. “I have work to do, do you understand that?”

 

“It’s a  _ Saturday _ , Michael,” Gob drawled, and Michael had to grip the towel a little tighter, “If you don’t want to see my magic tricks, you can just  _ say so _ .”

 

Michael had said so. Many times. 

 

“That’s not it--not this time anyway. I really do have work today,” Michael picked up one of the 10-90 forms and waved it in front of Gob’s face. “I have to file taxes for the company, they’re  _ due  _ Monday. Do you want us to get audited?” 

 

Gob blinked. He didn’t have an opinion on it one way or another. 

 

“Okay, look--” Michael rested his hands on his hips, immediately grimacing and regretting it when the coffee soaked towel pressed at his hip. “Look, Gob, I need to get these done this weekend. And I can’t get them  _ done _ if I’m watching your... _ tricks _ ,” Michael spoke patiently, as if speaking to a child. Though he wanted to completely snap, he knew that placating Gob to some extent might have been a more successful route to take. If he pissed his brother off, he wouldn’t hear the end of it for the rest of the day. 

 

Gob blinked again. However, a small blossom of understanding spread across his face and Michael crossed his fingers. Metaphorically, of course, he was still holding the coffee-stained towel. “Oh,” Is what he finally said, and hopped off of the table, and Michael breathed out a sigh of relief--then Gob flopped down in the chair across the table from him, all a blur of long legs and flourish, and grabbed a packet with a blase snap of his wrist. “Let me help you then, Mikey! I can do taxes, too, I’ve been paying my own every year for how long--”

 

“No you haven’t, unemployed magicians don’t  _ pay  _ taxes--”

 

“If I help you, we’ll get done in no time--”

 

In a horrible premonition-style vision, Michael could just envision the Bluth company literally on fire, and himself getting hauled away in handcuffs, being forcefully read his Miranda rights, all because he’d let Gob help with taxes.  _ Told you, Mikey, I had it all under control!  _ Premonition-Gob yelled after him, as he sat down and kicked his feet up on Michael’s burning Premonition-Desk.  _ I guess tax evasion runs in the Bluth family _ , a Premonition-Cop laughed as he pushed Michael into the backseat of a Premonition-Cop Car. “No!” he snatched the papers back, and watched his brother’s face fall. God  _ damn it _ . How did Lindsay get him to leave her alone so easily?  _ Well, she didn’t _ \--okay,  _ no _ , that aborted thought was already enough of that. Michael sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, Gob,” he said gently, setting the paper back down on the stack and then gazing across the table at his brother. “You want to help me out?”

 

Gob nodded.

 

“Then, you can do me a huge favour. Honestly, it’s the most important part of my weekend work.” It wasn’t. 

 

“Sure, anything, Michael. Well, anything other than wakeboarding.” Gob shuddered, “And other than sleeping with Kitty again. Well, I might do that again…” 

 

“No, no uhh,  _ wakeboarding _ , and  _ definitely  _ no sleeping with Kitty,” Michael replied, trying not to scrunch his nose up at the  _ again _ . “Okay, listen carefully, Gob. I need you to go to the store for me. Go to the store, and get  _ bread _ .”

 

“The store?” Gob repeated.

 

“Yes, the grocery store.”

 

“Bread?”

 

“Yes, bread. Just plain white bread. Wonderbread. Just go to the store and get a plain loaf of Wonderbread.”

 

Gob was quiet, considering. He finally spoke after twenty-five seconds. “Can I take Dad’s car? Bread won’t fit on my segway.” 

 

Michael would have given Gob the deed to the house and everything in his will at that point if it would just get him out the door. “Yes, Gob, you can take Dad’s car. The keys are in the entryway. Just... _ bread _ , okay?” 

 

“Of course, Michael, what else would I get at the grocery store?” Gob replied with a scoff, and with that, he was springing up from the table and tearing his robe off with an unnecessarily sexual body roll. The robe landed across the table, blanketing across all of Michael’s work, but conveniently not getting in any coffee. Michael looked down at his ruined slippers just a little bitterly. 

 

Gob ruffled his hair before he left, and Michael halfheartedly tried to shove him off, but his apathetic efforts were too late, because Gob had already left the room, and he heard the front door slam moments later. He waited, a second or two, heard the door reopen, keys being taken off the keyhook, then the door slammed again.  

 

The door opened again, there was a moment of silence, then… “Uhh, just, uhh, forgot my wallet!” Then Michael proceeded to hear several crashes and bangs as Gob undoubtedly rifled through everything in the entryway in search of the company checkbook. Michael considered just letting him struggle through it, but he knew that he would have to clean up any mess he made later, so he finally called, “Left pocket of my jacket!” without looking up from his work.

 

A little rustling, silence, then the door slammed yet again. 

 

Michael was paranoid for a moment or two, but he finally heard the engine rev in the driveway, and then a loud CRASH, which was probably their mailbox-- _ again _ \--and finally the sound of the engine faded and he was left alone in true silence. 

 

Of course he embraced the silence, relished it even, and immediately got on with his work after he took off his ruined slippers and hung Gob’s robe up. If he glanced at his brother’s coffee-stained playing card a few times in the process, well, it was only because he was thinking about what a waste of coffee it was. 

 

.

.

 

Gob was gone for so long that Michael would have been worried about him if he hadn’t managed to get so much work done in his absence. For a matter of fact, it was about two o’clock in the afternoon, and he was wondering why George Michael wasn’t back from church yet--then remembered something about  _ brunch  _ and  _ afternoon service  _ and felt mildly annoyed--before he even remembered that he had sent Gob to the store. When the clock struck three o’clock and Gob still wasn’t back, Michael assumed that he had just taken the car and gone to do whatever it was that Gob did in his spare time. Of course, he was a little mad that he might have to figure out how to explain a check from the company checkbook being used at a strip club or the likes, but honestly, that was a small task compared to the possibility of a full blown audit. He was practically done with the taxes, and if he kept working at that pace, he would have them all done tonight, freeing up his entire Sunday to spend with George Michael. He would just have to forbid his son from going to Sunday church and everything would be perfect. 

 

It was just about that time that the front door swung open loudly, a shattering following, most likely meaning that a picture frame had fallen off the wall, and Michael jumped, brow furrowing. There was no way that was George Michael getting home from afternoon church, his son never did anything so loudly. As a matter of fact, usually it was completely impossible to even hear George Michael enter a room. It was like one second he wasn’t there and the next...he was. It could be a little unnerving, and it would be particularly inconvenient if he did something that he didn’t want his son knowing about. Thankfully, he didn’t do any such things. 

 

His prayers that George Michael had developed a sudden and newfound tendency to slam doors were not answered, and his brother barrelled into the kitchen seconds later, arms  _ full  _ of overflowing brown paper bags. Michael gawked, as if he’d cartwheeled in on fire instead of walking in with groceries, albeit a little too enthusiastically. 

 

Gob was the first to speak, as he set down the bags on the counter, unloading a few fruits, which looked suspiciously like unripe mangoes. “Mikey, wait till you  _ see  _ what I got--you finished with the taxes?”

 

The question caught him off guard, as did the mangoes, and Michael blinked. “Uhh, almost, yeah. Wait, you actually  _ went  _ grocery shopping?” He dropped his pen onto one of the tax forms, work utterly forgotten as he stared up at his brother in dead shock. 

 

Now it was Gob’s turn to blink. “ _ Of course  _ I went grocery shopping. Where’d you think I’ve been for the past four hours?” 

 

Michael hadn’t really thought about it. He’d barely remembered Gob had left. 

 

“I don’t know, inside a top hat or a plastic coffin-- _ not  _ at the grocery store. What the hell were you doing there for four hours, Gob? It’s not even a  _ super  _ market.” 

 

“Saturday is free sample day,” Gob replied, a tinge in his voice telling Michael that  _ duh _ , why  _ else _ would anyone spend four hours at a grocery store? “ _ And  _ they had a product advertiser there!” 

 

Oh, Lord, here they went. 

 

“Just  _ wait  _ till you see this. It’s just what we need!”

 

Michael waited patiently, and Gob withdrew an orange...thing. It kind of looked like a thin orange airplane blanket, for a midget. Michael looked expectantly at him and Gob smiled the way that he did right before he attempted a magic trick. “It’s called a  _ Shamwow!  _ See, initially, I saw the guy giving his demonstration, and I was just going to  _ walk on by _ because I was trying to loop around to get a second sample of jumbo shrimp anyway. But  _ then  _ I heard the demonstrator say that easily removes any stain, and I remembered when you carelessly spilled all that coffee earlier,” Gob held up the offending orange object and Michael had to wonder if this was a joke. Unfortunately, his brother’s sense of humour wasn’t so advanced. “So I stuck around and watched the demonstration, and Michael, you won’t believe it, it’s  _ amazing _ . Like magic--well, to a regular person, who doesn’t understand magic, that is. It will clean liquid up off  _ any  _ surface. And the demonstrator said that it will last up to ten years, so plenty of time for you to clean up all the messes you make.”

 

Michael blinked. Then blinked again. One more time. He was so completely floored, that he didn’t even bother feeling any righteous indignation about Gob accusing  _ him _ of spilling coffee. (Sure, he had technically spilled it, but only because his aforementioned brother had decided that right on top of the table was the only seat for him.) Michael didn’t even  _ care  _ about that, though, because all he could do was stare at the thin orange fabric in Gob’s hand. “A dish towel.” He finally said, voice flat and devoid of all emotion, “You bought a dish towel.”

 

“ _ No, Michael, _ it’s machine washable and bleachable--” 

 

“A glorified dish towel--you know we have towels here--how much did you pay for that thing?”

 

“Twenty-nine-ninety-nine-- _ a steal _ , I know, right?” 

 

Michael was not being over-dramatic, not even a smidge, when he wished that a giant meteor would stray off course in that moment and singularly hit the Model House. 

 

“You spent thirty dollars of the Company’s money on an orange dish towel,” Michael reiterated, though he was talking more to the empty space between them than to Gob, because his brother had already moved onto the next item in the bag, setting the  _ Shamwow! _ on the counter to be forgotten and later used by Lindsay to wipe up spilt vodka, then immediately discarded. 

 

The next items were cans, appearing harmless enough, until Michael really looked at them and realized what they were. “Gob, is that  _ dog food? _ ” he asked incredulously, furrowing his brow as he read  _ formulated for the 4 universal needs of all dogs  _ along the side of every can. 

 

Gob nodded, stacking the cans up on the counter next to the green mangoes. “Yeah, it was on  _ sale _ , like ten for ten--”

 

Michael threw his hands up. “We don’t  _ have  _ a dog, Gob! None of us!” 

 

“What about that one that my nephew hangs out with all the time?” 

 

“Not funny, Gob,” Michael reprimanded immediately. It was funny. 

 

Before Gob could withdraw any more objectionable purchases from the bags, Michael held his hand up. “Where’s the bread?”

 

Gob froze. “Uhh… the what?” 

 

Michael narrowed his eyes. “The  _ bread _ , Gob. Where’s the bread?” 

 

Gob didn’t reply, and instead withdrew two oversized bottles of Midol. “ _ This _ was buy one, get one ten cents off, if you can believe it--” 

 

“Where’s the bread, Gob?” Michael demanded icily, staring holes into the useless dog food, then into his useless brother. 

 

“Well, uh, Mikey… I didn’t get any bread.” Gob admitted, and Michael should have  _ known _ , he should have known better than to expect anything other than exactly this--he sent Gob to the store for bread and he got a thin dish towel and food for his son’s girlfriend instead. “It wasn’t on sale!” Gob fumbled for excuses as he turned to gaze across the room at Michael, and Michael scoffed. 

 

“Was bread the only thing in the entire damn store that wasn’t on sale?” Michael asked bitterly. 

 

“No,” Gob replied soberly, tone a bit forlorn, “Bananas weren’t on sale either. I really wanted some, too.” 

 

Maybe it was the irony, or maybe it was the sheer ridiculousness of Gob wanting bananas when the family quite literally owned a banana stand, or the thought that Gob would spend almost thirty dollars on a useless towel, but not on bananas or a loaf of bread, or maybe it was the sight of his brother clutching two oversized medicine bottles of Midol, but that was Michael’s breaking point. 

 

“God, Gob, can’t you do  _ anything  _ right? You do realize that if you’d just  _ bought  _ the bread, even though it wasn’t on sale, you still would have spent less money than you did on all  _ this? _ ” Michael asked with a critical wave of his hand. 

 

Gob had not realized that. Gob hadn’t really thought about it like that. 

 

Michael huffed out a noise of frustration and just turned back to his work, clicking his pen mindlessly, and leaving Gob to finish unpacking the groceries. He couldn’t concentrate on his work, he read the same line five times and still didn’t know what it said, but he would be damned if he was going to give Gob his attention after the disaster and a half that had been the shopping trip. No, he was just going to continue on with his work,  _ breadless _ , thanks very much--

 

He felt Gob looming over him and he sighed, letting his pen casually fall from between his fingers, looking up. “What?” 

 

“I’m sorry about the bread, Mikey. I could go back and get it if you want--”

 

“No,  _ no _ \--just, it’s fine, Gob, okay?” Michael’s voice was still strained with annoyance as he reassured his brother, glancing upward then looking away just as quickly. He got too forgiving when they actually made eye contact.

 

“Okay,” Gob agreed quietly, subdued. Michael never knew whether he acted like this out of genuine remorse, or if he was just trying to manipulate Michael into forgiving him. Either way, he didn’t  _ care _ \-- “If I suck you off, will it make up for the bread?” 

 

That was probably the least shocking thing Gob had said all afternoon. 

 

“No.” Michael replied flatly. 

 

He watched as Gob’s shoulders slumped, clearly dejected, and probably off to convince himself that the  _ Shamwow! _ would be great in some new magic act, and Michael rolled his eyes, before reaching out and grabbing ahold of Gob’s wrist. Gob stopped mid-step and looked back at Michael curiously. 

 

“I said it wouldn’t make up for the bread, not that I didn’t want you to do it,” Michael replied, watching Gob’s features melt from confusion to a smug desire and it was almost enough for him to push his brother away. Instead, though, he pulled him in and gracelessly shoved him down to his knees. Gob dropped easily, though, settling between his legs without having to be directed, and Michael let his legs fall apart, leaning back slightly in the chair. 

 

He would have liked to say that  _ of course  _ this was the first time, he didn’t let his older brother settle between his thighs and undo his pants on a semi-regular basis, this was obviously just a moment of weakness, of  _ insanity _ , he was finally being pushed over the edge by living in a breadless house with almost his entire family and it was making him depraved. 

 

It wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t even one of the first times. The first time had been when he was fifteen, and Gob had said,  _ you dare me?  _ And Michael had been horny and stupid enough to not say no. 

 

Absolutely nothing had changed. 

 

Sometimes they’d stop for a little while. When Michael had gotten married, they’d stopped for a good while. Michael would like to say that it had all been because of an advanced moral code, that he’d never have hurt, or betrayed, his wife in such a depraved way. It hadn’t even been that, though. It was just  _ a lot _ . He and Gob, it was a lot. Usually once they got started, it turned into an addiction. They brought out the worst in each other, but in the best kind of way. After he’d made the mistake of letting Gob pleasure him when he was fifteen, he was pretty sure they’d spent the next two weeks solid either tangled up in bed together, or finding ways to sneak makeout sessions at school or groping under the dinner table or in the backseat of dad’s car, that one had really been a feat. It wasn’t even that he was too good of a guy to not have incestuous, adulterous liaisons--he really wasn’t--but he had just been  _ tired _ ,  _ overwhelmed. _ Finding time to fall into bed--or to the nearest available surface--together, hadn’t been easy with a wife and a kid to tend to. He hadn’t exactly had time to himself. 

 

However, now he just had a kid to tend to. And if George Michael could spend all damn day at church with Dog-- _ Ann _ , then he could let Gob have him on every available surface in a twenty foot radius. (He doubted either of them would have enough self-control to make it any further than that.) 

 

Michael didn’t bother to actually think about how well that logic checked out, he just reached down to firmly grip the back of Gob’s head with one hand. Gob smirked. “You’re such a desperate bitch, Michael.”

 

“Shh, you shouldn’t be able to talk right now,” Michael reprimanded, threading his fingers through Gob’s hair and hissing when he felt his brother’s fingers wrap around his forming erection, withdrawing it from the confines of his slacks and stroking a few times. “ _ Fuck _ .” 

 

“Language--”

 

“Fuck you.” 

 

Gob laughed and Michael rolled his eyes, then let his eyelids flutter shut for a few moments as he felt himself harden in his brother’s hand. Always too easily, always. 

 

After his wife had died, they had fallen back into old habits too easily. Of course, they’d waited a respectable amount of time before jumping each other’s bones--at least a solid two weeks. Okay, Michael had told himself that he was grieving. And when Gob had awkwardly lingered after the funeral and said,  _ Michael, is there anything I can do?  _ And maybe meant it for the first time in his life, Michael had pushed him back into the nearest chair and climbed into his lap.  _ Yes.  _ He told himself that he just needed to feel  _ something.  _

 

The time after that, when Gob got into his shower and Michael let him, he didn’t have an excuse for it. 

 

Michael usually tried not to think about it, and when he did think about it, he couldn’t bring himself to care all  _ that _ much. It always just ended up feeling minor in the grand scheme of things. For a matter of fact, sometimes he wondered if he’d feel embarrassed at all if the sibling he was sleeping with wasn’t  _ Gob _ . If it had been Lindsey, he wasn’t sure he would’ve even been able to find it in his constitution to  _ fake _ shame. In a family like theirs, it seemed inevitable that somebody would start getting it on with a family member. If anything, he and Gob were doing everyone a courtesy by going ahead and filling that trope so that nobody else had to do it. 

 

Some would call his extensive rationalization a coping mechanism, but he didn’t call it anything, because he was one hundred and twenty percent focused on his brother’s hot mouth sliding down over him and how loudly he could swear, since no one was in the Model Home. 

 

“ _ Fuck _ , yeah, just like that,” Michael urged his brother, who was always overly eager to please when it came to sex, and happily obeyed, constricting his throat around the head of Michael’s cock and earning another sharp swear. Gob didn’t have a gag reflex. All the practice sword swallowing, is what Gob told him. Michael was pretty sure that he just googled how to suppress it on the internet. Either way, it was probably Michael’s favourite thing about him.

 

“ _Fuck_ _yes_ \--”

 

Definitely his favourite thing about him. 

 

They fell into a rhythm, a slow, torturously erotic one--Gob on his knees, hands splayed on Michael’s thighs, mouth working on his cock, filling the kitchen with wet, sucking noises as well as the noise of Michael’s wanton breathing and occasional curse or praise. Michael was pressing his back against the chair, fucking his hips up against his brother’s face smoothly, faltering every once and awhile when Gob would tongue precum away from the head of his cock. He was clinging to the precipice, keeping the rhythm steady and just a little too slow because he didn’t want to lose the warmth of Gob’s mouth, didn’t want to lose the soothing pressure, or the shockwaves of pleasure that shot up through his abdomen and to his chest. Occasionally Michael would tip his head back in an erotic moan, but mostly he stared shamelessly down at Gob and watched him work.

 

“You look so fucking hot like this,” Michael admitted, and he could feel Gob’s smugness increase tenfold and he groaned softly. He shouldn’t have admitted that--he was always so weak-willed when Gob was sucking him off. “Maybe it’s because you can’t talk,” He added teasingly, though there was too much affection lacing his voice for it to be even the least bit cutting. Gob looked up at him, and Michael thrust up into his mouth, watching the way that Gob’s eyelids fluttered when he hit the back of his throat.  _ Fuck _ . 

 

He carried on slowly fucking his brother’s face for what felt like a blissful eternity until, finally, he felt Gob try to subtly click his jaw, indicating that it was probably sore from going down for so long, and Michael figured he wouldn’t make his brother suffer too much. After all, he was a selfless lover. Maybe all his selflessness was wasted in that one particular area. Though for Michael, it wasn’t exactly a  _ waste _ .

 

“Faster-- _ah, ahhh,_ _Gob, uggh, God_ \--” Gob hadn’t needed to be told twice. Upon Michael’s request, he’d sped up and suctioned his mouth a little harder, making Michael’s cock twitch in his mouth. His hands moved up to grip Michael’s hips, helping him keep a steady, but quick, rhythm of fucking up into his mouth. Michael could feel his cock hit the back of Gob’s throat with every thrust upward and it made his abdomen tighten, fingers tugging just a little too hard on Gob’s hair. He murmured a slurred apology and dropped both of his hands to his sides to grip the edges of the chair. 

 

Gob hadn’t minded the grip in his hair, and he made a muffled noise to indicate such, then reached down to grope for Michael’s hands. Michael caught on and moved his hands back, one gripping, softer, in Gob’s hair, and the other settling to rest against his cheek, thumbing over a cheekbone. He could feel Gob’s cheek hollowing around him, and it made him moan even louder, hips beginning to move erratically, and he shook his head hard when he felt Gob begin to slow down to steady him.

 

“ _ Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop, don’t stop--a-ahh, Gob! _ ”  

 

Both of Michael’s hands slid to the back of Gob’s head and held him firmly in place, his lips firmly pressed to the hilt of his cock, as he spasmed, cried out, then came hard. The sudden spray of cum hit the back of Gob’s throat and Michael felt him choke, which only made his cock twitch hard. Gob didn’t pull away though, and just sucked down everything he offered, which made Michael writhe back against the chair. Spent and oversensitive, Gob still licked enthusiastically at the slick head of his cock and Michael whined, trying futilely to push his face away. “ _ Gob, fuck, stop, I can’t _ \--” Gob pulled away, only to give Michael’s cock one more warm lick, then a soft press of lips which still had Michael’s hips twitching forward. 

 

“Good?” Gob asked, voice horribly raspy and cracking toward the end of the syllable. He coughed, a little embarrassed by the crack in his voice and trying to cover it with a lick of his lips and a glance upward, eyes glazed over as they sought approval. The raspy voice just made Michael bite his lip, though. It was all because of  _ him  _ and he felt his heart bleed a little bit. Okay, maybe Gob’s lack of a gag reflex wasn’t his  _ favourite _ thing about him. 

 

It was a  _ very _ close second though. 

 

“C’mere,” Michael murmured, grabbing ahold of Gob’s arm and hauling him up and gracelessly into his lap. It was awkward--Gob was taller than him and his limbs were gangly and spilled over the chair until they got settled, Michael fastening one arm around Gob’s waist and pulling him close, until his back was pressed against Michael’s chest, his other hand snaking down between Gob’s legs. He ghosted it over the prominent outline of an erection and purred into the back of his brother’s neck, teeth grazing over the skin there. “All for me?” 

 

“Always for you,” Gob replied with a soft sigh, head tipping backwards, and Michael rolled his eyes. 

 

“Always, huh?” he asked, fingers deftly moving to unzip his brother’s pants. He had a sneaking suspicion that they were probably a pair of his old stripper pants, but the angle was too awkward to mess with the snaps anyway. 

 

“Always Mikey,” Gob replied, arching up into his touch, “thought you knew that… _ ahh _ , you don’t have to--” 

 

“Shut up, Gob,” Michael nipped at the back of his neck again, curling his fingers around his brother’s impressive erection with a soft, satisfied sigh. He liked Gob’s cock a lot more than he was usually willing to admit, at risk of fuelling his brother’s troubling ego. Usually by the third or fourth round, though, Gob could break him down and make him admit to it. For now, Michael would just appreciate silently, tracing over the prominent veins with his thumb. He could feel Gob’s breathing catch and quicken through the flexing and tensing of his abdomen, and Michael smirked a little when he felt his brother pant as he stroked him. He swiped his thumb over the head of Gob’s cock, precum collecting in the grooves of his fingerprint, before he slicked it back down and began stroking steadily again. 

 

Gob was quiet, save for the occasional groan and the short, quick breaths he was taking, his hips gently rising and falling so he could thrust up into Michael’s hand. With every thrust upward of his hips, he inadvertently ground back down against Michael’s lap, and Michael could feel his cock slowly twitching back to life. It made him want to groan a little. His refractory period was always long enough that it frustrated him in the moment, but short enough that it tired him out, and later, when he was laying in his bed trying to sleep and (not) wondering why his back hurt, he would hate himself, but mostly Gob. 

 

There was an added thrill of doing such amorous activities in the middle of the very  _ open  _ kitchen. It was absolutely wrong, and it was reckless. Their family was already in such a vulnerable state, and finding out the truth about Gob and Michael’s relationship, it would  _ wreck _ them. It would traumatize George Michael, would ostracize Lindsay, their mother might have a  _ heart attack _ … Michael’s cock throbbed at the thought and he moaned, grip on Gob tightening. 

 

It wouldn’t exactly be right to call Michael voyeuristic--it wasn’t  _ just  _ voyeurism that got him going. He wasn’t strictly an exhibitionist. He was more of a--well, was there a word for getting off on situations, the more taboo they were? 

 

(There wasn’t one, there were six.  **A sick son of a bitch** .)

 

The kitchen was still erotically quiet, just the gentle sound of Gob gasping and the faint sound of skin on skin as Michael’s grip stayed relaxed but firm, pumping Gob until he said his name, breath hitching at the first syllable, throat still syrupy and a little raw from the deepthroating. Michael’s arm around Gob’s waist tightened its grip and kept him held close, breathing hot in his ear, lips parted and leaving hot wet breath marks against his brother’s skin. 

 

Michael was so lost in the intimacy of the moment and how good Gob felt in his hand, silky and just a little moist, that when Gob’s hips stuttered and he arched his back, moaning out,  _ “ahh, shit, Michael-- _ ” Michael was caught off guard, as he hadn’t realized Gob was so close.

 

“Fuck, no--Gob--don’t,  _ don’t  _ you dare come,” Michael ordered, releasing Gob’s cock in almost a panic, then quickly reaching down to fasten his fingers around the base of it, squeezing hard. 

 

“ _ Ahh _ \-- _ oh _ , fuck,  _ fuck _ , Michael--!” The pleasure in Gob’s voice faded to a more startled and pained note, his hips jolted, and then fell back down as he panted raggedly. Michael sighed in relief, held his grip tight for another second or two, then let his hand fall away. “Michael--”

 

“Don’t come, I want to fuck,” Michael said simply, too lusty and urgent to play any games or tease his brother, who was nearly whining for it. 

 

Gob turned to look at him, surprise evident in his slight raise of eyebrows and the way that his flushed lips--flushed from  _ biting them, _ Michael realised with a heady surge of lust--parted slightly. “You want to fuck?” he asked, voice softer than usual--but just as fucking  _ deep _ \--and clearly a little taken aback. 

 

Michael nodded. “Yeah, I want to fuck,” He replied, voice just a notch too breathless to truly be considered casual or nonchalant. 

 

Gob didn’t need to be asked twice. He was out of Michael’s lap and pulling him up and to his feet--and oh, there went the pants, they  _ had  _ been the stripper pants, lying forgotten in two pieces near the kitchen table---and then they were kissing for the first time in at least a week. Gob’s lips tasted raw, and Michael could still faintly taste cum when Gob parted his lips, and it should have disgusted him but it just made him suck Gob’s tongue into his mouth. It was a familiar taste, anyway. Took him right back to his childhood, if he were being candid. That thought was almost hot enough to make him come in his pants, and he groaned, letting Gob divest him of bottoms entirely, then fumbling to push him toward the kitchen counter. 

 

“ _ Here? _ ” Gob asked with a raised eyebrow, though he offered a firm hand on Michael’s bare hip to help hoist him up onto the counter. 

 

“Here,” Michael replied, just a hint of amusement laced in his voice, that his brother would be the one to have impropriety in this situation and he would be the one saying it was perfectly reasonable to fuck on the kitchen counter in the Model Home. “Why not?” he added, watching Gob’s eyebrow go up even more. 

 

“I can think of a few reasons,” Gob murmured into his neck, teeth sinking in just above Michael’s collarbone, earning him a primal moan. 

 

“The only reason I want you to have for doing anything right now, is if it’s the fastest possible way to get in me.”

 

Gob groaned and pushed Michael’s thighs open over-eagerly, though Michael didn’t even care about the slight twinge, he just moved his hands to grip at the fake granite countertops. 

 

Gob rolled a sleeve up and Michael stared down shamelessly, then practicality set in and he groaned as if his entire life had been ruined. “ _ Oh fuck _ , Gob, I think there’s lube upstairs, can you--” 

 

With a rather sinister smirk, Gob drew back and Michael watched as he reached into one of the brown paper bags from the store, soft rustling, then withdrew--an electric Hello Kitty toothbrush.

 

“ _ Gob-- _ ” 

 

There had been one incident with an electric toothbrush when Michael was fifteen. It had  _ nearly  _ involved the ER, a lifetime of shame, and potentially ritualistic suicide, so Michael had long since vowed never again. 

 

Gob looked at the pink object in his hand, then smiled sheepishly and tucked it back in the bag. “Sorry, sorry--that’s for George Michael. I got Maeby a Superman one, too, it’s in here somewhere.” He rustled around in the bag again, and this time withdrew a medicinal looking tube. Michael raised an eyebrow. 

 

“I suppose that was on sale, too?” he asked, and he wondered if Gob had planned on fucking him from the very instant that he asked him to run to the store or if the lube had simply been inspiring. 

 

“It _was_ actually,” Gob replied smugly and popped the cap off, then coughed loudly. Almost immediately upon opening the tube, the entire kitchen was flooded with the strong smell of _cherries_. And not like cherries on top of sundaes, or cherry wine, or even cheap cherry candy, more like a _cherry_ _car air freshener._

 

Michael coughed also, more from surprise at having his senses flooded than anything else, then blinked at Gob dryly. “I guess we know why it was on sale now.” 

 

“Sorry,” Gob offered with a shrug, glancing at the lube in his hand, “I thought it was flavoured, not scented. Do you want me to go upstairs--”

 

“Nah, let’s just use it,” Michael replied, reached for the offending tube. He squeezed some of it out--it was  _ bright red _ , which was more amusing than traumatizing at this point, really--and then took Gob’s hand into his own, slicking his fingers messily.

 

“Use it?” Gob parroted, fingers separating as Michael slicked over him with the slippery substance. 

 

“Gob--what did I tell you a minute ago?” 

 

“That the only reason you wanted me to have was whatever would get me in you the quickest,” Gob recited dutifully, and then, with no warning or preamble, slid a finger into Michael.

 

“ _ Fuck! _ ”

 

“Quick enough for you?” Gob asked, letting Michael’s hot walls suck his finger further in, already teasing at his entrance with a second. 

 

“Shut  _ up, shut up _ \-- _ oh, oh, ye-ah _ \--” Michael moved his legs to wrap around Gob’s hips, but Gob used his free hand to push them back open and Michael whined in protest but kept them spread. 

 

Gob had two fingers buried in him now, and when they curved, Michael cried out, making Gob smirk down at him.

 

“ _ There _ , Michael? Use your words…” 

 

“ _ Fuck _ , yeah,  _ there _ , Gob,” Michael tried to squirm down against Gob’s fingers, but he didn’t have to, as Gob fingered him compliantly, fingers seeming to delve in deeper with every push, taking care to curve and brush against his prostate regularly. Michael still continued to squirm against the countertop, and by the time that Gob added a third, a thin layer of sweat was shining on his skin, and the skin on his bottom lip was broken from his teeth dragging against it. “ _ Fuck _ , your fingers are so  _ long _ \--” Michael gasped out before he could think better of it, teeth digging back into his bottom lip to abort his sentence.

 

Gob had heard though, and he looked up at Michael, cocking his head slightly to the right. His fingers were still buried deep, stroking softly and making Michael keen. “What?” 

 

“ _ Nothing _ \--” Gob dug in a bit harder with his middle finger and Michael swore, hips pressing down desperately. “It’s  _ hot _ ,” he murmured, a faint blush colouring his cheek. He had been expecting Gob to laugh, or make a brazen comment, but lips were covering his the next second, and then the fingers were gone. Michael vaguely heard the squeeze of the lubricant, a slick noise, then Gob was sheathed fully in him. It hurt enough that Michael bared his teeth against Gob’s mouth, gasping out a long breathless noise and letting his ankles come to rest at the small of Gob’s back. It was a pleasant burn, like the way that a fifth glass of champagne burned going down, being filled so quickly, and Michael nudged Gob roughly with his heel to let him know that he could move. 

 

“ _ Oh, Michael _ , I’m going to fuck you so hard--” 

 

“ _ Do it then, _ ” Michael shot back, voice strained and fingers grappling to grip at Gob’s shoulders, fingers gripping at the thin fabric of his shirt. 

 

Gob slammed back into him and made his back arch almost uncomfortably, and Michael titled his head in gratitude when Gob moved a hand to brace against his back while he fucked him. Michael was sure that the hand on his hip, and the lips pressing against his, and the way that Gob kept murmuring about how  _ tight  _ he was, was all horribly emasculating, but Michael had learned when he was sixteen and wriggling around in Gob’s sticky sheets during a summer day hot enough to start wildfires, that there were a few things that were better than achieving peak masculinity. 

 

Well, there was one thing. 

 

And that was getting fucked. 

 

It should have felt violating, by all means, allowing his brother  _ inside  _ his body, without a condom, even. He could feel every inch of Gob’s cock--he still refused to believe  _ nine _ , just on principle--against his innards, probing so deep that it made him tense with every thrust, but it felt more comforting than anything, and all Michael could do was moan incoherently and pull him even closer. Gob gracelessly fell forward, practically sprawling on top of him on the countertop. He let Michael fall back against the fake granite countertop and braced a hand next to his head so that he could get enough leverage to fuck him with quick, hard thrusts.

 

Though Michael found himself thinking more often on their leisurely, slow fucks in tangled sheets, most of their encounters were just like this, hard and fast and against an inappropriate surface, because they were both equally impatient and greedy as soon as clothes started coming off. Michael liked to think that when clothes were  _ on _ , he had the patience of a saint. 

 

“Ah, you like that don’t you, you vixen?” Gob murmured, as he reached down, albeit slightly awkwardly due to the impractical angle, and curled his fingers around Michael’s cock, messily stroking in time with his thrusts. 

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Michael moaned in response, his toes curling and head pressing so hard back against the countertop that it hurt. 

 

“Such a wanton little  _ whore _ \--”

 

“D-don’t push it,” Michael stuttered breathlessly, thighs twitching and then pressing even tighter against Gob’s hips. 

 

“ _ Cockslut _ \--”

 

“ _ Gob! _ ” Michael would insist that the use of that particular word had absolutely nothing to do with the world-rocking orgasm he just happened to have after its use. His hands gripped and he clung to Gob as he came, cum splattering all across the front of Gob’s shirt and spilling over his hand. “ _ K-keep going _ \--” Michael just barely got out before he could feel his brother spill inside of him, hot and sticky and almost immediately leaking down his thighs. Gob had spewed a litany of his name and unidentifiable noises when he came and buried his face into Michael’s neck, leaving a hot, moist area in his wake. Michael managed to sit up, dazed and still breathing heavy, and gave Gob a small, lopsided smile. They were going to have to scrub this counter within an inch of its life with Lysol. Or, they could just not and say that they did, and Michael could feel privately vindicated next time he watched Lindsay eat her breakfast off of it while haranguing him about money for new shoes.

 

“Well, I would say that was the best thing since sliced bread,  _ but _ … I really wanted sliced bread,” Michael teased flatly with a small shrug, watching as Gob’s face contorted with his wounded pride. 

 

“ _ Still _ on about ‘sliced bread’, huh? I can show you how to  _ slice some bread _ , Michael, c’mere--” Gob grabbed his hips and yanked him closer, and Michael yelped, then laughed in spite of himself, hands reaching out to brace against Gob’s chest.

 

“ _ Bad _ ,  _ Gob _ , that was just  _ bad _ \--” Michael chided, looking up from where he sat precariously on the edge of the countertop. Their eyes locked and one of Gob’s sticky hands rose to gently touch his cheek, and they were about to kiss, when all of a sudden, a very soft voice shattered the moment with one very small syllable. 

 

“Dad?”

 

As Michael had pondered just earlier that very day, his son, George Michael, had the unnerving ability to enter a room without anyone hearing him. It was like one moment he wasn’t there, and the next...he was. Michael had pondered how it would have been  _ quite  _ the inconvenient habit if he had things that he wanted to hide from his son. 

 

_ Oh. _

 

With impulsive force, Michael shoved Gob away, accidentally shoving so hard that Gob stumbled and fell back against the fridge. Michael slid off the countertop and yanked his bottoms back up, running a panicked hand through his hair in attempts to smooth down any spots that Gob had mussed up. Gob managed to push himself back up onto his feet, but the fridge didn’t have quite so much luck, and fell backward into the wall. At least it didn’t fall into the garage--a loud crash moments later took that  _ at least _ away. 

 

Michael gave Gob a quick onceover, then saw the drying white smatterings of cum all across the front of his button-up and frantically waved his hands mouthing,  _ Your shirt!!!! _

 

_ My what???  _ Gob mouthed back, and Michael pointed messily then, causing Gob to look down and see the telltale marks. He looked around, seeing that his robe was too far away to retrieve in time, so he did the only thing he could think to do--he ripped his shirt off. 

 

Michael could have face planted into a square of wet cement at that moment, and still would have been happier. 

 

However, in attempts to save some face, he spun around instead, to greet his son, who was standing quietly on the other side of the counter. He looked more confused than traumatized, so Michael thought maybe he thankfully didn’t see anything aside from Gob knocking the fridge into the garage and ripping his shirt off. 

 

“George Michael!” Michael plastered a smile onto his face, then spotted the open bottle of lube sitting on the countertop. Quickly and without looking, he swiped it into the sink. It slipped down into the garbage disposal, which promptly whirred, then died with a loud clanking of gears. Oh well. They didn’t need a garbage disposal anyway. “Back from Saturday church already?” 

 

“It was a five hour service.”

 

“Ha, five hours? That’s it?” Michael replied, trying not to bristle when he felt Gob at his elbow. 

 

There was a rustling in the bag, then Gob withdrew the toothbrush from earlier and Michael thanked whatever God that his son had spent five hours in church for that Gob managed to pull the right thing out from the bag this time. “I got this for you at the store earlier,” Gob said solemnly, handing George Michael the Hello Kitty toothbrush across the countertop. Apparently he also felt obligated to account for being half-dressed, though George Michael didn’t seem fazed by it, because he gestured to his bear torso and added, “Practicing a new magic trick. Forgot the paint, though.” 

 

“Thanks, Uncle Gob,” George Michael replied, taking the toothbrush without complaint, “Can I see your new trick?” 

 

“Uhh…” There was no new trick. “Of course, after I find my paints.” 

 

George Michael smiled, and Michael was just too relieved that his son hadn’t seemed to witness anything incriminating to even bother chastising him about wanting to see one of Gob’s magic tricks.  

 

“Oh, sweet, are those mangoes?” George Michael asked, peering across the counter at the unripe mangoes. 

 

“Yeah, I think so, I got them at the store,” Gob replied offhandedly, finally moving across the kitchen to get his robe from where he’d ripped it off earlier. 

 

“Oh, awesome!” George Michael exclaimed as he peered into one of the bags. “There’s all kinds of things in here!” 

 

_ But none of them are fucking wonder bread _ , Michael deadpanned in his mind, before his son turned to him with a softly curious look. 

 

“What did you do today, Dad?” George Michael asked curiously, then picked up a can of the dog food. “Are we getting a dog?” 

 

“Did she not come in with you?” Gob asked, from where he was now sitting at the kitchen table, feet kicked up on the chair Michael had been sitting in. 

 

“No, George Michael. We’re not getting a dog. And I--” 

 

However, Michael never got a chance to explain what he did, to explain  _ how many  _ company transactions he went over and how diligently he had done the taxes. Because George Michael shook his head gently and said, “I thought you said you were working today, Dad. Uncle Gob went to the grocery store for us and everything.” 

 

Gob walked past him and ruffled his hair with a flippant, “Yeah, Michael, just because it’s a Saturday doesn’t mean you should  _ slack _ .” 

 

Michael bit his tongue and tried to keep his mind off pulling Gob in and biting his. Hard. 

 

“You’re right, George Michael,” Michael finally said, after a moment of silence and clenching his jaw. “I should be working. I’ve got some work for your uncle to do, too.” 

 

Gob glanced over at him, from where he was drinking orange juice out of the carton. 

 

“Oh, are you guys going to go into the office or--”

 

“No,” Michael replied, locking eyes with Gob and reflexively letting his tongue flick against his bottom lip. “We’re going to work from home.”

.

.


End file.
